The ARC Reviewer Chapter 1: The Permafrost Queen

Amelia smiled past her chamomile tea as she clicked the star count for the review. One star. That was all this trash had deserved. 

She liked to think of herself as honest, and usually impartial. But this garbage heap was better lit on fire than bound with perfect stitching. 

Her cat looked at her from the corner, placing a paw onto her hand. Amelia looked at Buttons.

“Buttons, you get no say in the matter. You can’t read, and you didn’t have to deal with that,” The Permafrost Queen said.

Buttons meowed, knowing his opinion had no say, and he could save no victim tonight. He purred and walked away.

She hit send, and after a few moments, her book review website, Permafrost Reviews updated its launch page. Her newest post shone on the top of the page. It radiated light from the laptop out into the studio apartment.

Post 2359, December 14th: Sugarsuncruise, a better alternative to gouging your eyes out, the post title read. But not by much.

The novel was predictable, with characters flatter than my old training bra. Ramirez writes MMC and FMC chemistry like he failed out of middle school science class. This, without any surprise, earns the burning dumpster heap. (That’s a level 1 star for you newbies.)

The blog post read as the newest update, and she folded her laptop.

Honestly, being honest felt good. She took another long drink from her tea and hoped it would start to take effect soon. She always got antsy after finishing a review. 

Her phone dinged. It was 3:00am. Who emailed at 3:00am? Who did anything at 3:00am? 

Jimmy MacDahdi, of Moshi Moshi Press, the subject line said. Amelia’s eyebrows raised slightly. She clicked it. 

Dear Permafrost Queen, the email read, you are invited to attend the Second Chance Festival. 

“This sounds like a cult,” she said aloud.

Moshi Moshi Press has invited you to a virtual meeting to talk about the Second Chance Festival slated to happen this summer. If you have a valid passport, please make the meeting. Link below. 

Best regards,

Jimmy MacDahdi

“What? Why do I need a passport for a virtual meeting?” Amelia scoffed, only halfway talking to her cat. She pushed aside the laptop, but did not close it. She stared at the email, the light breaking the darkness of her room. The invite link said it was later that day. 

Moshi Moshi Press was one of the oldest, most renowned publishing houses. However, it was incredibly selective. In the publishing world, it was rumored that Moshi Moshi accepted fewer than one percent of submitted manuscripts - but every manuscript they published turned into pure gold. 

Amelia found her hand moving towards the confirm invite button on almost instinct. Amelia had no idea what they wanted with her. But, Moshi Moshi was well-known for putting ARC reviewer quotes on their website, and had single-handedly launched several Bookstagram careers.  

If nothing else, it would make a good blog post. Her hand paused on the mousepad a few moments longer, before she hit accept. She closed the laptop and laid back down. 

She stared at the ceiling for a little while. She thought back, worried, if she had given the burning dumpster heap rating to any of their books. There had to be some reason they wanted to talk to her. Her fingers reached absently towards the bedside lamp.

“Maybe a few pages,” she said to Buttons, grabbing the next victim from her ARC Review stack.

Book. She meant the next book.

* * *

There was not enough coffee in the world. What genius decides to hold the webinar at three in the morning as well? 

She was in her comfy pants, nursing a coffee that was more sugar and creamer than coffee bean. Her hair was not done, and she had barely decided to actually attend this meeting. If one random person who worked at Moshi Moshi - and would likely never see her again anyways - thought badly of her, well then screw them too.

She stared at the email. Apparently the 4:00pm time had meant the Philippines’ time zone. 

She hoped it was monsoon season there.

There was a ding, and the meeting was about to connect. And as it connected, she froze, mid-yawn.

One thousand five hundred people were in the chat. 

“It seems the last one of you joined,” a woman said. “Welcome, Permafrost Queen.”

Amelia recognized the woman speaking. Isabelle Delos Santos, the owner and lead publisher of Moshi Moshi was staring at her from the other side of the camera.

* * *

Ten Weeks Ago

“Fourteen,” Azael Tan said aloud, as the last paper dart landed into the ceiling and stuck.

“You’re going to get me fired, Tan,” Jacob, his cubicle-mate said over his shoulder.

“What? Why is that?”

“Because that’s how American middle school children do it, placing a paper clip into the dart’s nose. If it involves paper darts the way Americans do it, who do you think they will blame? The American intern,” Jacob gestured at himself with both hands, “or the Filipino veteran editor?”

“That’s racist on their part. You shouldn’t work for a company like that anyways,” Azael said as he flung another dart. “Fifteen.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Jacob said, spinning towards him in his chair, keeping the manuscript he was reviewing in his hand.

“I already read the books for this week,” Azael said. “That’s what good editors do.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“You know I am a speed reader.”

“I didn’t know that, actually. We’ve been cubicle-mates for like, a month,” Jacob said, lowering his manuscript slightly.”

“Oh,” Azael said, pausing with the next dart. “Well, happy one month, my guy. Sixteen.”

“I wouldn’t call it happy.”

“Look, they were easy to read. This week they dumped the historical fiction submissions on me. I treated them fairly. I read them, then confirmed that yes, in fact, I did hate them, and then threw them in the Safe Haven for Imperfect Texts pile.” Azael pointed to the pile in the corner.

It had a piece of printer paper taped above it onto the side of the cubicle wall, distinguishable only by the acronym. 

“You put it in the S.H.I.T. pile?” Jacob said, putting down his manuscript.

“I put it in the Safe Haven. It’s very unfair to just call them shit. I can’t believe I have put up with this for a month.”

“You made the acronym,” Jacob said, grabbing his coffee.

“Affectionately. You’re just being mean. Seventeen.”

“Half of these are historical fiction.”

“Those pieces are in the right pile.”

Jacob rubbed his eyes. 

“I’m going back to my manuscript.”

“We both know your phone’s hiding in that manuscript page. You’ve been on the same page for twenty minutes.”

Jacob paused, looking back at the new penguin game app on his screen. The phone was nestled exactly where Azael had thought.

“You take care of your own S.H.I.T., and let me handle mine.” Jacob spun back in his chair.

A Filipino woman in her early twenties poked her head around the cubicle entry. 

“Hello, there, Shit Master,” she said smiling her smile that used to sell fashion magazine covers. Azael knew that was her profession prior to being the lead editor for genre fiction.

“Hello, Maria. Did you call me Shit Master?” Azael looked back at Jacob. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we do need a new acronym.”

“I say it affectionately,” Maria said.

“Is there something I can help you with, Maria?” Jacob said, his smile giving away more than he had hoped it would.

“What’s your name again?” Maria asked him, her well-kept eyebrows coming together slightly.

“It’s Jacob. I’ve been here for a month.”

“No thanks, Jake,” Maria said, but as she turned to Azael, he noticed her expression softened. “But Azzy, is there any chance you can help a girl out?”

“What’s my immediately superior girl boss needin’?” Azael said.

“It seems you have a little spare time,” Maria said, “I’m thinking I need someone to help trim this list down for me. You know the Second Chance Festival? I need this list down to one thousand five hundred. Then mercilessly cut it down to one thousand.”

“Why am I cutting it down twice?” Azael asked.

“Because if you cut them down only once, then we lose out on an extra five hundred people talking about the Second Chance Festival. But if you do let in fifteen hundred, then that is an extra five hundred blogging about it,” Maria glowed and raised her chin.

“I take it that was your idea,” Azael said. It wasn’t so much a question.

“How did you know?”

“Because it’s a stupid one,” Jacob whispered in the corner.

“Because it shines like only your ideas do, Maria,” Azael said, his smile matching Maria’s. “And remember, that’s coming from the Shit Master.”

“Thank you,” Maria said, glowing and holding out a piece of paper. “Here’s the list. Narrow it down. How long will it take you?”

“Do I get a bathroom break?”

“I mean… I guess? HR says I can’t really tell you no on that.”

“Then an hour.”

“If I had said no?”

“Still an hour. This list is portable.”

Maria’s smile slipped slightly as Azael took the paper from her hand.

Maria’s gaze drifted towards the ceiling. 

“Are those paper darts?”

Azael glanced up as though noticing them for the first time.

"Huh. American style."

"What?" Jacob said, grabbing his arm rests.

Azael was already heading towards the bathroom, his eyes scanning the list. As he looked over the list, one name caught his eye.

“Amelia Frost,” he said, while pushing open the men’s room door. “Oh, definitely yes.”